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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24769735">i think of you as my brother</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/normanbeepis/pseuds/normanbeepis'>normanbeepis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019), The Walking Dead (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Clubbing, Crossovers &amp; Fandom Fusions, Dark Past, Depression, Developing Friendships, Doppelganger, Eventual Romance, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Hook-Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Paul Rovia Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Self-Acceptance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:42:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24769735</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/normanbeepis/pseuds/normanbeepis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>with the odds of 1 in 135 people looking just like him, jesus manages to run into his exact doppelgänger and quickly bonds with him, immersing himself into malcolm bright’s life and in turn confronting his own traumas and learning to cope with help from the world’s most traumatised nypd profiler.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo &amp; Jesus (Walking Dead), Jesus/Negan (Walking Dead), Malcolm Bright/Jesus (Walking Dead)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <a href="https://ibb.co/PcGZFhT"> <br/>
</a>
</p><p>art by bhishak</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
He was running when he slammed head first into the man outside of the café.</p><p>That morning, Jesus had woken up in an unfamiliar living room surrounded by discarded beer cans and plastic cups. He rarely passed out at parties, even more so he rarely passed out in stranger’s houses. His mind was heavy and thick with syrupy slow thoughts, and it took him a while to even process that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Most peculiarly, he was grasping a permanent marker in his hand. When he pulled himself up from the floor he was very unnerved to find a group of obviously hungover people staring down at him.</p><p>They didn’t appreciate his presence, even if he couldn’t remember how he ended up staying the night.</p><p>“Good morning,” he said softly, hoping it would lighten the mood.</p><p>“GET THE FUCK OUT!” A small girl with pink hair bellowed back at him, startling him to his feet and getting him to burst through the door.</p><p>He ran down the stairs, pursued by a guy in Star Wars-patterned pajama pants who was apparently the soberest of them, who also happened to have a dick sketched onto his face in Sharpie. Crushed beer cans were chucked at him as he jumped over the railing at the last few steps and raced through the front door, his feet pounding against the concrete. While he didn’t remember what happened the night before, was it really worth chasing someone because they may or may not have drawn a dick on your face?</p><p>His chaser didn’t stop as he turned onto a neighbouring street, he was still pulling his coat back over his shoulders when he saw a suited figure standing towards the other end of the street in front of a café. He acknowledged that there was someone ahead of him and he would need to weave out of their way, yet his mind blotted out the image of the suited person standing in his path when he remembered that he was still being chased. The figure was put completely out of his mind as he bobbed through pedestrians.</p><p>Jesus was glancing behind when he made bodily contact, his chest slamming into the figure and promptly collapsing on top of the person. The suited person yelped, definitely unaware that anyone else was coming up the sidewalk. He groaned, sitting up and looking down at who he’d knocked over. His hair had been swept into his face when he fell, his eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were bright blue even in the emerging light over the city. Jesus pushed his own hair back behind his ear, stuck in a trance looking at this stranger who seemed very familiar yet also entirely foreign.</p><p>For a moment, they both watched each other carefully, before he realised that he was alright to stand up and stop crushing the stranger underneath him. He untangled their legs and stood, holding out his hand to help the man in the suit up.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, I saw you ahead of me and I didn’t even—” He began to apologise, but the stranger held up his hand and picked his phone up from the sidewalk.</p><p>“It’s alright, can you even say you’ve lived in New York if you haven’t been knocked over by a complete stranger?” He glanced down at the screen, grinning and tipping it forward for him to see. “Didn’t even break, I’m surprised.”</p><p>He arched his eyebrows, smiling slightly at the suited man. It was only then that he remembered he was being chased, and his pursuer caught up to them, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around. His expression quickly flicked from anger to embarrassment as he let go of Jesus’s shoulder.</p><p>“<em> Ohh, </em>sorry man, I didn’t know you had a brother.” He chuckled uncomfortably, waving for a moment before he turned on his heels and walked back down the sidewalk, leaving the both of them very confused.</p><p>“Am I really that threatening?” The stranger asked, a slight laugh colouring his tone.</p><p>“<em> Brother </em>?” Jesus squinted and inspected the stranger’s face. Sure, they both had blue eyes and brown hair, but he couldn’t see much other resemblance beyond that. He didn’t think he had a very warped perception of his appearance, but maybe he did if he couldn’t see any of his own features in this stranger’s.</p><p>The stranger checked his phone once again, making a micro expression as his eyes passed over something before he tucked it into his pocket and focused once again on Jesus.</p><p>“I doubt my family would hide if I had a long-lost brother, or if they had I would have found out about him by now. What’s your name?” He tilted his head to the side, folding his arms over his chest.</p><p>“Paul, my friends call me Jesus, though.” He instinctively did the crucifixion pose, immediately snapping himself out of it when he realised how stupid it looked. However, the stranger grinned, nodding slightly.</p><p>“I’m Malcolm. I don’t know if you’d like a coffee, but you look a bit hungover and I’m free for another half-hour.” The offer baffled Jesus, why would someone who looked like he’d easily spend a hundred dollars on a haircut want to have a coffee with a stranger who floored him not ten minutes ago? Whoever Malcolm was, he was strange, but Jesus wasn’t going to pass up a coffee at what he’d heard was a very trendy café.</p><p>The Mug Shot was nestled in between a vintage camera shop and a bodega, with walls painted bright blue and yellow patterned with pop art graphics, perfect for Instagram photos. It was any run of the mill millennial hangout, but the smell of coffee beans roasting and being steeped in French presses overwhelmed his senses and made his stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, all he’d had to drink in the past twelve hours was beer and coffee sounded absolutely perfect.</p><p>They sat at a small table tucked into one of the café’s nooks, a cozy booth that was so small their knees touched underneath the table. They’d later learn it was a child’s booth, but they were both small enough to scarcely fit in it without being crammed up together like sardines in a subway.</p><p>“Why was that guy chasing you?” Malcolm asked, ripping a napkin up into tiny shreds.</p><p>Jesus slouched down in the booth and spread his legs underneath the table, trying to provide room for Malcolm’s legs without saying that he was uncomfortable. He tried to focus on the soft music playing over the speakers so he wouldn’t have to think about what he looked like underneath the table, enjoying the gentle song playing through the café. It took him a moment to process that he’d been asked a question, but his eyes shot up from Malcolm’s hands to his face.</p><p>“I don’t even really know. I woke up with a Sharpie in my hand and he had a dick drawn on his face, and if I’m being honest I could do much better work than that.” He laughed slightly, looking over at the counter for a moment. Jesus knew scarcely anything about coffee besides the fact that he liked the taste of it and would drink it if he was offered but refused to ever buy any for himself. He just ordered an Americano because it was more bang for his—or, more accurately, Malcolm’s—buck. Neither had any idea how to react when the barista asked what Malcolm’s brother would like, but they both found it hilarious.</p><p>The chatter in the room was surprisingly quiet, much more akin to a library. He glanced back to him, surprised that he was still paying attention to him. It was so rare that he was the centre of attention even in a one-on-one conversation, he’d just let people talk until they were worn out. But Malcolm was waiting for him to keep talking, he actually seemed quite invested.</p><p>“I’m an emotional drunk, not mischievous.” He rested his chin on the heel of his hand, watching him through his eyelashes.</p><p>“That makes two of us.” Malcolm gathered the napkin shreds into a pile, pushing it to the side when he noticed the server walking towards them out of the corner of his eye. </p><p>“There you go, boys. Enjoy,” the server spoke in her best customer service voice, getting a quiet “thank you” from both of them. The corner of Jesus’s lip turned up as he </p><p>“Well, maybe more of an affectionate drunk,” his voice warmed as he took the espresso cup and saucer into his hands, looping his finger through the handle.</p><p>Jesus didn’t know if he could visualise him being affectionate even when he was shitfaced as he took his own cup and leaned over it. It felt nice to have heat on his face.</p><p>“That’s much better than flipping between crying and hysterical laughter every twenty minutes.” He said, hoping it would be comforting but it seemed to not quite land that way. His eyes bounced down from Malcolm’s face to his Americano. He was still scarcely awake, and his companion seemed to understand that.</p><p>“I guess,” he wondered audibly as he held his demitasse halfway up to his lips. “Unless you’re in the company of very emotionally constipated friends, then it’s not exactly appreciated.”</p><p>Jesus nodded, and they both sipped their drinks in near-perfect unison. </p><p>They continued their small talk, it was hard for him to talk around why he hadn’t attended university and was living on his friend’s couches, but he didn’t exactly feel judged for it. Really, he was surprised to hear that Malcolm was a profiler for the NYPD. He expected something more akin to an accountant, but that made no sense after he struggled to calculate a tip and needed Jesus’s input. Though, he admired that he must have at least been able to cope with what mentally exhausting work that was, he knew he certainly couldn’t do that.</p><p>As they stepped back out onto the street, Malcolm lingered beside Jesus. While it would have been very easy to just say that it was nice to meet him and walk away, he hesitated and checked his phone once more.</p><p>“I need to head to work.” He said, looking up at his companion with some look passing behind his eyes that he couldn’t decipher.</p><p>“Can I get your number? If it’s not too much to ask, but I’d like to talk to you again, Malcolm.” He pulled out his own cracked phone, though it felt like he was pressuring him to say yes.</p><p>Though, he once again surprised Jesus.</p><p>“I hoped I wouldn’t have to ask myself.” He smiled and took the phone from his grasp. He quickly typed up his contact, handing the phone back and running a hand through his hair.</p><p>“Well, I hope you can solve that murder!” Jesus yelled as Malcolm walked away, he grinned to himself when he heard his laugh cutting through the cacophony of the East Village.</p>
<hr/><p>He had no idea if he was being nice when he gave him his number, so he decided to hold off sending anything. If there was anything that his past relationships taught him, it was that sending a text too soon after first meeting someone looked desperate. So, he made his way back to Sasha’s and threw himself down on her couch, distracting himself from Malcolm the profiler. </p><p>He had keys to nearly all of his friend’s apartments and made use of each after extensive questioning if he was alright to stay at hers until night. Sasha tended to be the most open to letting him stay over, even if he didn’t deserve that courtesy. He only knew she didn’t mind it when she came home at midnight and found him curled up on the sofa, only to pat his head and wish him goodnight.</p><p>Surprisingly, he had a day off from the convenience store, leaving him an afternoon to fill before he inevitably met up with his friends in the early evening. Maybe they’d go to a club, some party, or they’d go back to one of their apartments and gorge themselves on pizza while watching pirated movies. Maybe Jesus wouldn’t exactly gorge himself, but he wasn’t above watching torrents of awful horror movies that were interrupted either by the loudest coughing ever recorded or the black silhouettes of heads bobbing in and out of the frame.</p><p>When he checked his group chats, however, he couldn’t find any indication that tonight would entail any gathering. Work in the morning, date nights, just plain not wanting to go out. He got that, but he wanted any excuse to slip out before Sasha brought her boyfriend home.</p><p>There was a club in Tribeca that one of his friends decided against going to in favour of having a night in drinking wine. He was scarcely familiar with it and if it ended up being boring, he’d pickpocketed a few wallets at the party last night, he’d be able to pay for as many overpriced cocktails as he wished.</p><p>Before he went out, he washed his face with water and a washcloth. He’d shaved his beard for the first time in nearly five years the other night for a job interview, hiring managers thought he looked “too homeless” with it, whatever that meant. He had a faint five o’clock shadow colouring his face, maybe he was starting to see how he and Malcolm looked alike.</p><p>A fourteen minute walk from Sasha’s and he was at The Grind, leaning against the bar and waiting on a bright red, fruity drink that he hoped was worth Lee Sumner’s last ten. He’d pulled his hair up, but he kept loosening it from the elastic as he waited on his drink. His eyes passed over the club’s crowd, just like anything he’d expect to see in a movie or TV show—attractive twenty-somethings with various levels of ability dancing to explicit Top 40 hits. He didn’t mind the music, and he wasn’t a great dancer himself but he was still othering himself from them. Hopefully some alcohol would bring him out of his burgeoning depression.</p><p>Jesus grabbed his drink after the finishing touches had been added, and he took a swig of it. The syrup giving it a strong strawberry-pomegranate taste surged through his blood, it would have been entirely too sweet without the sour sting of alcohol burning his tongue. He strutted from the bar and walked along to the back of the club, avoiding the swathes of dancers. </p><p>His mood began to lift when he locked eyes with a guy jerking his body in time with the song, deciding that he’d dance with him for a while. He wrapped an arm around the guy’s shoulders, smiling up at him when he grabbed him around his waist and pulled him closer. They swayed together, he sipped his drink, and everything was alright for a moment.</p><p>Jesus turned around and laid his back flush against the guy’s torso, letting him grind against him. Ah, <em> that’s </em>why the club was named The Grind. He threw one arm back and looped it around his neck, his hips swung in time with his partner’s. He let a moan pass his lips after one perfectly-timed grind, his eyes rolling back behind his eyelids. </p><p>The pulsating beat of the music made his head hurt, he didn’t want to imagine the headache he’d have in the morning. His head tipped back onto the guy’s shoulder, and he felt a flat hand sliding down his stomach.</p><p>“<em> Bright </em>?” A voice spoke, one that he wasn’t familiar with but one that was certainly directed at him. He opened his eyes and looked forward, finding three police officers staring at him.</p><p>The guy jumped off of Jesus and scuttled away, leaving him blushing and his heart fluttering while three strangers were staring at him like he had just done something outrageous. He couldn’t imagine how this was worse than what anyone else was doing, or why they were acknowledging him specifically.</p><p>“You owe me $10,” one of the two men whispered to the woman stood beside him, who nudged him with her elbow. She looked back to Jesus, like she was worried for him.</p><p>“Who was that you were dancing with?” The woman with curly hair asked, her eyebrows furrowed.</p><p>“I don’t know?” Jesus responded, he didn’t understand why it was any of their business. However, one of the men, the older one with a beard, looked very cross at him.</p><p>“That’s an open drink Bright, tell me you haven’t taken your eyes off of it.” His voice was stern, fatherly, he wondered about this guy’s relationship to whoever Bright was.</p><p>He couldn’t think of anything to say to these people, other than insisting they had him mistaken for someone else. Wait…</p><p>“Gil! Sorry, I was in the—Jesus?” Malcolm came up from his right, eyebrows raised. The cops in front of them looked incredibly confused.</p><p><em> Of course. </em> He glanced between Malcolm and his team, putting the pieces together in his brain. His first instinct was to take his hair out of its bun and letting it fall onto his shoulders, hoping that would cement to them that they were in fact looking at two completely different people.</p><p>“You didn’t tell us you had a brother.” The other guy was visibly baffled, looking between them both. “Identical…twin brother?”</p><p>“No he doesn’t,” the older man responded matter-of-factly, his hands resting on his hips. “Who are you?”</p><p>He started to part his lips but before he was able to tell this man who he was, Malcolm butt in and explained everything. “His name is Jesus, I met him this morning when he literally ran into me.”</p><p>No one knew what to say. His team was still processing a long-haired doppelgänger of assumably someone that they knew very well. Well enough to be shaken seeing Jesus standing beside him, a version of Malcolm that was apparently very different from what they were adjusted to. He took another sip of his drink, the slush was melting into watered-down syrup.</p><p>“What did I say about the drink?” The older man said again, the first to vaguely adjust to the sight before them. Malcolm’s face twisted into a little smile at his insistence, like it was a good sign.</p><p>Jesus set it down on an empty table, getting a gentle sigh from the man.</p><p>“Uhm, we’re supposed to find Caleb Cruz here?” The curly-haired woman asked, deciding to distance herself from the situation. He didn’t blame her in the slightest.</p><p>“Yes! He should be arriving soon with intel,” Malcolm began, though his thought was interrupted by a shriek ringing out through the club. They raced towards the source of the noise and Jesus followed out of pure curiosity even though he knew he’d regret it.</p><p>The man who must have been Caleb Cruz had had his throat cut in the middle of the club, his attacker rushing out the front doors while the crowd yelled and filled the empty air with pure energy. The cut was jagged and deep, the sight of gore and bone and the scent of iron wafting towards him made him tense up. Every muscle in his body was pulled taut and each exhale left his lungs as a quick, harsh little noise. He was shoved and tossed about between bodies of terrified club goers yet he didn’t fall or decide to move. His eyes were locked on the body splayed on the light-up floor, blood flowing from his wound and slowly into the crowd.</p><p>People began to race out of the club, the noise became so loud that it became inaudible, just a continuous buzz in his brain. He couldn’t pick out any one word or phrase being said, he just knew that a roar of commotion was going on around him. Jesus didn’t realise he was being spoken to until he could see Malcolm in his hazy eyeline.</p><p>“Are you having a panic attack?” He spoke calmly despite all of the chaos, for a brief moment he felt like he could touch the ground again. But, the sound of the officers screaming only forced him back into the ocean, kicking wildly and hoping he wasn’t submerged.</p><p>Jesus wasn’t fully conscious when he was placed into the vehicle Malcolm’s team had arrived in, through shuddering breaths he’d only managed to say “I don’t know” to his earlier question. He settled into the backseat with him, keeping his eye on him as they were driven away from The Grind. Tears brimmed in his eyes as the image of the crudely sliced neck conjured images of beheaded bodies, of necks hacked at until they were impossible to repair, of the violence he couldn’t leave behind.</p><p>“Do you know what square breathing is? I’ll start—breathe in, ten, nine, eight…” He counted slowly, Jesus felt like his lungs were going to explode when he reached one. Holding the breath for ten counts was even worse, he could feel his lungs quivering and trying to breathe out to match his heart rate.</p><p>He reached his hand out and grabbed Malcolm’s, anchoring himself down into the car as he breathed out for ten counts. He laced his fingers between Jesus’s and rubbed his thumb across the thenar palm of his hand, just below his own thumb. It was hard to look over at him after doing that, but when he did, he found a look of understanding directed at him. The corner of his lip curled for a brief moment, though he was brought out of it when the car jolted to a stop at a light. His grip on Malcolm's hand tightened.</p><p>Jesus didn’t remember stepping into the police precinct, but he didn’t feel comfortable as he watched the chaos from inside the lieutenant’s office. The sofa was surprisingly comfortable, though the entire room still felt sterile and lifeless. The only other personal touch he could find was a model car on the desk, the miniature version of a car he’d seen outside before he stepped into the precinct.</p><p>His mind still raced as he tried to force himself to think of anything but the sound of steel crunching through bone and muscles being sawed in half. He folded up and rested his forehead against his knees, his temples tightened and ached even when he squeezed his eyes shut. His arms tightened around his shins, pulling his body up into an upright fetal position as he tried to ward off the memories. He was so deeply immersed in the images flashing behind his eyelids that he didn’t hear the door open.</p><p>“Do you need anything?” Malcolm’s voice was soft, it rang slightly in his ears as he looked up. He’d taken his suit jacket off and draped it over his arm, his hair raked through and raked through.</p><p>“I want to go to bed but I can’t close my eyes,” Jesus’s voice was small. He scooted to the side, allowing Malcolm a spot on the couch.</p><p>“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?” He asked, he sounded like he was pondering something. He wasn’t sure what that little intonation in his voice meant, but he didn’t think much of it.</p><p>Jesus shook his head slightly, while he could go back to Sasha’s it wasn’t a good choice. He’d be up all night talking to himself and wandering in her living room that she wouldn’t be able to sleep herself. She was the one who tolerated his mental breakdowns the best. Though, he couldn’t imagine staying the night in a police precinct.</p><p>“Well, if you don’t mind, you could stay with me tonight. I understand if you don’t want that—” Malcolm began, and Jesus’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Really?” He interjected, watching him cautiously. “You’d let a stranger into your home?”</p><p>He smiled slightly, an expression that warmed his face. “My mother wouldn’t appreciate me letting a stranger into her property, but she’s not the one who lives in it. And trust me, as a profiler I can safely say you aren’t dangerous.”</p><p>Jesus laughed, his arms still tightly wrapped around his legs.</p><p>“What if your profile is wrong?” He asked, rubbing his own arms above the elbow. Malcolm shook his head, a smile still present on his lips.</p><p>“I trust you. If you trust me, you’re welcome to stay the night at my apartment.” It comforted him, though he thought Malcolm was a bit stupid to say he trusted him so easily. Though, it was kind, and that meant a lot to him. </p><p>The precinct was surprisingly quiet, his panic attack had only accentuated very mild chatter into an insurmountable wall of sound. His heart rate had dropped down to a near-normal rate, he felt his own pulse as they crossed through a sea of desks and computers and crime scene photos to the exit. Malcolm checked behind him, making sure he was still being followed as they passed through the door and into a hallway that led to the entrance of the precinct.</p><p>While Jesus should have been concerned by the idea of being invited to a stranger’s house, this wasn’t too different from going back to a guy’s house after meeting him at a party or club. The only difference was that any normal person wouldn’t immediately trust Malcolm to do something as vulnerable as sleep in an unfamiliar space alongside someone like him. Thankfully, Jesus didn’t have any self-preservation instinct and any adventure was a good one to go on. He’d gotten this far just going with the flow and tonight had been more entertaining than it would have been if Malcolm and his team hadn’t interrupted his night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>content warning: this chapter contains attempted suicide and coerced sex</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He didn’t realise until they were at the front door that he had been wearing the same clothes for three days. He couldn’t remember where he’d left his backpack, it had two shirts and pairs of jeans he alternated between throughout the week. With his luck it would be at one of his one-night-stand’s apartments, collecting dust in a corner or chucked into a dumpster.</p><p>His mind was taken off of his bag when Malcolm opened the door. The first thing to catch his eye was the wall of axes and various other weapons. Maybe he had stepped into a closet serial killer’s apartment and he’d end up dead before the sun came up again. Still, he stepped further into the apartment, following Malcolm at a creeping pace as he took everything in. His attention was caught by chirping not too far from him.</p><p>Jesus strutted over to the bird, a small green parakeet in a quite horrendous little cage. Still, he gawked at it and tweeted back at it, hoping to win over its favour.</p><p>“Her name is Sunshine. Have you ever had a pet bird?” Malcolm was standing in the kitchen, though with an open-concept space it was more akin to a kitchen/living room/bedroom hybrid. He was filling two glasses with water, which Jesus gladly took to soothe his stomach.</p><p>“No, the group home I grew up in was strictly against pets. And once I’d moved out I didn’t have enough money to take care of a pet.” He was surprised when Malcolm took the glass from him, setting it down on the counter and standing beside him as he watched Sunshine. “But I like birds, really any animal.”</p><p>“A group home? What was that like, if you don’t mind me asking?” He kept his eyes on him, it made him a bit nervous.</p><p>Jesus hadn’t talked much about his time in the group home, it wasn’t entirely eventful besides some mild homophobia his last few years living there. Overall, it could have been worse, the worst was yet to come at that point.</p><p>“I lived with ten other boys, take a guess what it was like.” He smiled bitterly at Malcolm, who nodded in response. After a moment of hesitant silence, he directed his attention back to Sunshine.</p><p>Jesus was so fascinated with the bird that he hadn’t noticed Malcolm walk away. He shrugged his coat off and checked the two wallets he’d stolen at the party to see how much money he had left. He’d wasted enough of it at the club, he still had fifteen dollars left over that he couldn’t think to save for anything. He slipped the wallets back into his pocket and leaned his hip against the counter, glancing between the weapons wall and Sunshine’s bird cage.</p><p>“I don’t know if these will fit you, but we’re probably the same size.” Malcolm came back in carrying sweatpants, boxers, and a black t-shirt.</p><p>Jesus furrowed his brows as he glanced between his face and the clothes, wanting to insist that it wasn’t necessary but tempted by the thought of clean, soft clothes.</p><p>“You don’t need to be this nice to me. You’ve already let me sleep over, I don’t need anything else.” Jesus insisted, not entirely comfortable with how he kept offering things. It felt a bit like charity, and the last time he accepted it had been a mistake.</p><p>“I was going to offer you clothes to sleep in, but if you don’t want to take them that’s fine. I’ll just set them,” Malcolm trailed off, setting the folded clothes on the foot of his bed. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”</p><p>He crossed his arms over his chest as Malcolm approached him, standing behind the chairs at the counter and keeping his eyes locked on him. Neither of them spoke, they just glanced over each other’s features and tried to pick out what was similar. Jesus ran his finger over the slope of his nose, and Malcolm tilted his head to the side. He’d never thought himself attractive, but if he did look anything like Malcolm, maybe he was handsome. Was it weird to say something like that? Probably not, at least no weirder than running into your exact doppelgänger.</p><p>Jesus uncrossed his arms, smiling slightly. “What did your police friends say about me?”</p><p>Malcolm left his trance, his eyes flicking back up to his long-haired twin’s. They took on a slightly deeper colour in the low light, he wondered if his looked like that.</p><p>“JT and Dani are convinced you’re my twin, and Gil doesn’t know what to think. They’re all terrified by the mere idea of a second Malcolm existing,” he laughed, raking his hair out of his face.</p><p>“You terrorise them regularly?” He asked, his voice taking on a coy tone.</p><p>He shrugged, gripping the back of one of the chairs. “I have zero regard for my health and safety, it’s taken years off of their lives, Gil specifically.”</p><p>Jesus chuckled slightly, appreciating the lighthearted way he described it. It made him feel much more comfortable knowing Malcolm was just as self-destructive as he was. He decided to at least check out the pile of clothes and consider changing. He wasn’t sure what changed his mind about taking the sleep clothes but the sweatpants did seem extremely comfortable about now.</p><p>He was led to the bathroom, though he would have easily changed in front of Malcolm. He’d done it in front of his adopted brothers, he’d done it in front of his friends and complete strangers, it didn’t exactly feel wrong but it was probably more appreciated if he changed in privacy. He didn’t have to prepare any explanations if he didn’t have an audience while he undressed.</p><p>“You’re free to use anything in the shower,” Malcolm said from behind the door, waiting for him to deposit his clothes.</p><p>Jesus peeled off his henley and tossed it to the side, it practically reeked. His jeans and underwear followed with it, he’d already left his shoes at the front door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door, uncomfortable with the idea of handing his disgusting clothes to someone he barely knew. But, Malcolm took them and headed off, leaving Jesus with a shower that heated almost immediately and a pile of his clothes.</p><p>The shower felt amazing, his skin turned red underneath the patter of the water and his hair appreciated the rinse. He ran his hands across his skin and sighed happily, just wanting to enjoy the feeling of a hot shower for a moment longer until he decided to clean himself.</p><p>Malcolm had a body wash that smelled nice, it was a generic fresh scent that overwhelmed his senses as he scrubbed at his skin with a loofah. He was careful as he scrubbed over his ribs, his back, always hesitant to put pressure there. His breaths became heavy in the abundance of steam filling his lungs, it vaguely felt like he was suffocating. Still, he took his time washing his body and his hair before he stepped out, not knowing when his next shower would be.</p><p>He spent a while drying himself meticulously, specifically drying his hair. The bags under his eyes were beginning to take on a reddish-purple hue, his eyes heavy-lidded. Jesus had never felt a towel as soft as the one he was drying himself with, it was probably why he’d been spending so long rubbing it against his skin. </p><p>He pulled it away and set it to the side, shifting through the pile of clothes and holding up the boxers. It felt weird to put on a stranger’s underwear, though he’d probably done it at some point when he was drunk. Actually, he definitely had, he woke up once wearing pink leopard-print panties that fit him surprisingly well. He still had them and wore them occasionally, though they were also tucked into the backpack he was missing.</p><p>Jesus tugged Malcolm’s boxers over his legs, and of course they fit him. The sweatpants followed suit, but he stopped before he put the shirt on. He stepped out into Malcolm’s apartment as he scrunched his hair in the towel, practically gasping for cool air to fill his lungs. His body was shocked by the cold, but he didn’t mind it. He focused on the window, looking out onto the skyline. For a moment his mind went empty, he just stared into a void and his vision blurred. The lights of the city were big blurry orbs overlapping each other, turning gold and pink.</p><p>“I…” His head jerked to the side at the sound of Malcolm’s voice, his heart tensing in his chest. His eyes fell on the tattoos trailing down Jesus’s ribs, bright red roses with green leaves that stood out strikingly from his pink skin. He dropped the towel from his hair and his damp locks fell onto his shoulders.</p><p>“You like them?” Jesus turned to face Malcolm, who was still focused on his torso. “I got them six months ago, I think.”</p><p>He hadn’t really made note of when he got them, days tended to blend together. Jesus liked Malcolm staring at them, especially when he came closer to look at the detail on them. He must not have seen tattoos very frequently.</p><p>“That must have hurt,” Malcolm mused, tipping his head to the side as he examined them. “Not a lot of fat over the ribs, do we have the same pain tolerance too?”</p><p>He chuckled slightly, running his fingers over them and nodding. “I guess we do.”</p><p>It felt like the awkward buildup to a hookup, chatting until they were both in the mood. He glanced over at the bed, wondering if they were going to share it or if one of them would be sleeping on the sofa or the floor. He wouldn’t mind either of the latter, the bed was much too tight for them to comfortably sleep without touching.</p><p>That was when Jesus noticed restraints affixed to his bed, leather cuffs for his wrists and ankles. He gestured at them with his eyes, a small smirk growing on his face. He was utterly fascinated by the sight of the restraints, learning a little detail about Malcolm that intrigued him. He stepped closer, kneeling down and picking one up in his hand.</p><p>He hadn’t been in cuffs in ages, but they hadn’t been ruined for him. Jesus had been restrained before, and it was extremely thrilling if he was remembering correctly. He sat down on the bed, teasing the idea of strapping it around his wrist. It reminded him of the muscle jutting up from his wrist and pressing against leather as his nails dug into his palm, just as he was coming undone.</p><p>“I’m a…<em> violent </em> sleeper,” Malcolm said softly as he sat beside Jesus, startling him for a moment. Who slept in restraints? Malcolm, apparently.</p><p>“Do you want to tie me down? Just to see what it’s like.” He pulled on the elastic rope, he had a wide range of motion that he wasn’t used to with normal restraints.</p><p>Malcolm shook his head slightly, still grinning. “I’m not putting them on you.”</p><p>“Damn, it was worth a try.” He let it drop onto the bed beside him. </p><p>What did Malcolm expect them to do otherwise? It didn’t seem like there were too many other options, he didn’t know why he was invited to stay or offered anything he had been if he didn’t expect something in return. Jesus felt like he had to repay Malcolm in some way.</p><p>“What do I owe you for staying over tonight?” He asked, not being able to predict what he’d want. Had he kept his cards close to his chest, hid it so perfectly that he couldn’t decipher it on his own? Was he just projecting that he owed Malcolm something because he was being offered so much kindness by a stranger?</p><p>“Owe me? Why would you owe me anything?” He responded, seeming honest in his misunderstanding. His eyes focused on him intently, reading his facial expression for some indication of why he was questioning his intentions.</p><p>He regretted it almost immediately, it inspired him to rise to his feet and step back into the bathroom to finish dressing himself. His body suddenly felt tight, like it was being constricted in an extremely finite space that he couldn’t claw his way out of. The heaviness of his being made itself apparent as he swung his arms over his head to pull the shirt on. As it slid onto his torso he exhaled, he couldn’t figure out what had brought on his mood. He was having fun a second ago, everything was perfectly fine then.</p><p>“I’m just used to fucking guys for a place to sleep at night.” His voice was brittle, but it didn’t feel like personal information he was offering up. It didn’t seem like something he would have to hide from Malcolm. If he could comfortably say it to a complete stranger he could say it to him.</p><p>He nodded, though he didn’t understand why he was so quick to take in that answer and accept it.</p><p>“I don’t expect anything from you, Jesus. I’ve liked getting to know you today.” He watched him as he left the bathroom and pushed his wet hair from his face.</p><p>“I’m in debt to you now, aren’t I? You get a favour from me, for doing all of this.” Jesus didn’t risk sitting back down, not until the ambiance felt less stifling.</p><p>Malcolm smiled slightly, leaning forward and looking up at him. “I’ll save it. But, can I ask you how you ended up at the same club as us?”</p><p>He chuckled, he wasn’t playing serious with his suspicion and it made him feel more at ease. Jesus exhaled softly and briefly considered how low the probability of them ending up at the same nightclub was. It wasn’t his normal spot, but it wasn’t too far away from Sasha’s and that seemed like reason enough to check it out. He’d never have thought that night he’d see a man with his throat slit on a multicolour dance floor, it was a surreal image that his liquored brain hadn’t quite processed yet.</p><p>“Fate, I guess. It’s pushed us together twice in the same day, it’s nearly impossible odds in New York.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, holding his elbows tightly.</p><p>“Even lower odds that I’d see my doppelgänger twice in the same day.” Malcolm looked over him like he was inspecting him, neither of them saw it but the resemblance was apparent. If they looked at each other in a mirror, maybe he’d see it then.</p><p>Jesus yawned, trying to force his fatigue away. It had been a long night, even if it was only just past one am. Though, he felt certain that a day had passed since he was brought to Malcolm’s apartment, maybe even more. He wasn’t sure if he felt comfortable going to sleep there, especially when by the looks of it there wasn’t any place for him to sleep besides the bed.</p><p>“If you’re tired you can take the bed, I’ll be up all night. I’m not even going to try tonight.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the counter, and Jesus nodded.</p><p>They traded places, he fell onto the bed and looked up at Malcolm. His bed was very comfortable, much more than any floor, sofa, or ancient bed he’d slept on in the past two years. He turned on his side and watched his companion pull his phone from his pocket and dial, stepping away into another room to allow him silence. Unfortunately, he didn’t realise that Jesus hated silence.</p><p>It only gave him an opportunity to get trapped in his thoughts.</p><p>When he squeezed his eyes shut, his mind began to whorl and summon up memories. After a flurry of white lights that swirled past his vision, his feet were planted on drab green carpet in Virginia. He was eighteen. When he looked up, he was standing in the bedroom in the group home, glancing over the white bunk beds and a sea of childhood paraphernalia that belonged to his brothers only. His own bed was scarce, white comforter and white sheets with martial arts ribbons and medals hung on the wall below the top bunk.</p><p>His knuckles were bruised, he’d gotten in trouble for fighting again when it was fucking Allan who started it. What else was he supposed to do once he was knocked to the ground and being pinned down and kicked in the stomach by four boys? He’d done as much as he possibly could to stop them, from going to school security guards to the principal to even his foster parents, but nothing could be done. Allan and his gang were allowed to continue harassing him for being gay and beating the shit out of him until he was bloodied, bruised, on the verge of passing out.</p><p>But he’d made the mistake of fighting back that particular day, of punching Allan in the face and incurring the wrath of four homophobic football players. Jesus kicked one of them in the crotch and felt a little proud of himself before he was tackled. His arms took the brunt of his fall, folded in front of his face so only his fingers crashed into his skull.</p><p>He was expelled that day, his principal tired of dealing with the bullying. The easiest option was to get rid of the victim, in some roundabout way he could justify it just as well as his parents could. They were disappointed in him, to keep instigating abuse that would have simply stopped if he “quit acting queer.” Even after the retaliation, the questioning of what exactly made him queer besides expressing a hypothetical attraction towards men—he’d never been stupid enough to let them onto his sexuality, he couldn’t risk it.</p><p>So, that night he packed his things. He threw one medal in with his few clothes into his backpack, admittedly his only possessions, and scribbled out a quick note. He thanked them for caring for him, but for nothing else. It felt so harsh, but there wasn’t anything else he could think of. Mr. and Mrs. Rovia put a roof over his head, fed him, and put him through public school, but otherwise he spent fifteen years with them and couldn’t find one kind thing to say about them as people. He left the note on his bed and promptly left.</p><p>It was cold that night, he shuddered underneath his jacket and huddled in on himself. The only place he could think to go was the bus stop, he could sit there and gather his thoughts for a while. After eight the buses didn’t come to this stop, his parents wouldn’t see him there while they were driving home, he’d have another moment to consider his next move. His first idea was to wander into the woods, walk until he ended up in another state. </p><p>But, it made him wonder if he would start a new life, or end it. He remembered his mind churning as he considered the pros and cons of starting over or killing himself. He was a high school dropout, a straight-C student before that, with no job experience or interest in going to college. What would he do if he continued living? Where would he go?</p><p>He rolled through plan after plan, from bridges to highways to lakes. He warmed his hands in his lap, the chill getting to him. If he didn’t make a decision soon he’d probably freeze out there, but dying so close to home wasn’t appealing, especially in such a slow, awful way. That was when he thought of some train tracks leading out of town, ones by an old building in a field. It was near-impossible to stop a train, he’d die in mere seconds. He threw his bag back over his shoulder and shook, following the path he’d worked out in his mind to the tracks.</p><p>The sidewalks and streets started morphing into gravel paths and empty roads, all lonely and silver in the moon’s cast. When he looked into himself to put together what he was feeling, he found nothing. His thoughts had slowed to a halt, his heart wasn’t pounding, even with the knowledge that by the end of the night he would be dead he still didn’t feel anything.</p><p>He looked over to the road, a semi truck was barrelling down the hill and approaching him. While he could have raced into the street, threw himself into the truck’s grill, he decided not to. He wasn’t isolated enough yet, he wanted to be alone when he died, taken out by a vehicle that wouldn’t stop for one mile after it had collided with his weak body. His knees buckled slightly as he considered the feeling of a wall of metal going fifty-five miles per hour striking him, shattering his bones and crushing his vital organs. A short gasp of air evaded his lungs, it rose in a light grey cloud above his head.</p><p>Every time his family drove past the tracks, he took note of the field they were situated in, how they ran parallel to a dilapidated paper mill that Mr. Rovia’s father worked at. He’d dreamt of the day he would step foot into that building, meet the love of his life, they’d live in that building together and no one would ever find them. Alas, in smalltown Virginia it didn’t seem feasible. But, it was one last nice memory before he died.</p><p>Maybe the most disappointing thing was that he quickly ran out of nice memories as he approached the tracks, scarcely hidden by tall grasses. He stood twenty feet away from them, looking over the building with ice cold eyes. His grip tightened on the straps of his backpack, the trees at the edge of the field led to a thicket of woods that almost certainly contained wolves and bears that were waiting to come claim whatever was left of him. He stepped onto the tracks after a brief moment of hesitation, finalising his plan.</p><p>Jesus threw the bag to the ground and stood on a wooden plank, moss had begun to spring up from its body and the wear and tear of weather had compromised the integrity of the planks. He stepped across them, pacing back and forth as he waited for the train to come. It was on his fifth stroll down the tracks when he noticed that the rusted steel rails were popping up from the track, to the point that it seemed unlikely a train would ever run on these again.</p><p>Still, he waited. Maybe a wayward train would come to get him, would sense that a runaway was looking for death. If there was a god, they would send a train just for him. He sat down and closed his eyes, trying to feel any vibration in the rails or the planks. His thoughts spiralled, he couldn’t take his mind off of what would happen if he was found by Mr. and Mrs. Rovia. If the animals in the woods didn’t claim the last shreds of his body, how would they react to seeing their black sheep in a crumpled pile on the ground, eyes milky or rolled back in his head? He couldn’t conjure up any feelings about their reaction to his demise, nothing at all. They would pray over him in church, at the funeral, maybe they’d put flowers on his grave the first month after his death, but afterwards what? They’d use him for Good Christian points, that even though he killed himself they forgave him. </p><p>After an hour with his hands numb to the chill and his nose running, he decided that it wasn’t likely a train would arrive anytime soon. He picked his bag back up reluctantly, stepping slowly off of the tracks and approaching the paper mill. If a train wasn’t going to come, he would rest in the mill and gather his thoughts again.</p><p>He kicked the door open, which flew back beneath his foot with a loud, creaking moan. The mill was dark, most machinery and processing materials either destroyed or removed over the years. Cobwebs hung from every corner and beam of the building, even gathered in the corners. He looked around, taking in vague silhouettes and shadows and trying to find a nice place to sleep.</p><p>There was a loft situated on the back wall above a particularly threatening-looking device that was many years out of commission. He cautiously approached the machine, wondering vaguely if something would spring out of it or it would roar to life as he was leaning in for a closer inspection. However, nothing happened when he looked over it, maybe it was a paper pulping machine or a paper press, he had no clue. Were this a horror movie he would have stuck his hand in its mouth to recover something he dropped, and slowly be pulled in as its gears and teeth shredded him into tassels. Thankfully, this was simply a melodrama.</p><p>He looked back up to the loft, hoping to find a ladder or stairs that led up to it. The loft would most likely house the largest spider nest outside of Australia, but he didn’t care. If he didn’t fuck with the spiders, they wouldn’t fuck with him. And if they happened to be venomous, all of his problems would be solved.</p><p>Jesus located a metal ladder attached to the loft, secured in place with rusted screws that would probably snap in half like twigs. He exhaled softly as he carefully climbed up hand and foot, the ladder quivering underneath his shaking limbs. His fingers turnt cold against the metal, the second he threw himself up into the loft he rubbed his hands against his jeans to warm them. The wood creaked under his weight, but the metal beams supporting the wood flooring kept them from splintering beneath him.</p><p>He wasn’t up there long before he fell asleep, he only glanced through dirty, spiderwebbed and cracked windows onto the field and the road not too far out. While he looked, he spotted a car parked along the edge of the tree line nearest the road. He hadn’t noticed it while he was outside, he had no idea if there was someone watching him or not. The car sat parked, headlights off, he couldn’t even tell if it was occupied by the driver.</p><p>It was early in the morning when he heard footsteps on the floor of the mill. He jumped at the sound, sitting up and backing up against the wall. His heart raced in his chest as a man approached him, one that didn’t look surprised to see him. The man smirked at him and laughed softly as Jesus stared back down at him, visibly terrified.</p><p>“Didn’t see the ‘no trespassing’ sign, kid?” He asked in an amused tone, gesturing towards the door with a pointed thumb. He stopped short of the machinery, leaving a safe distance between them both.</p><p>The man was older, maybe in his thirties, grey was starting to grow at his temples and he carried himself like he’d been around. Jesus had seen guys like him stepping out of the bars in town, “tough” guys who really were just pieces of shit that threatened to beat their wives and taught their children to fear them rather than to confide in them. But, they were so appealing because they exuded some slimy charm that softened the blow that was their horrible point of view.</p><p>Though he was young back then, he was still conditioned to think men like this were charming, even attractive. Every man in film that he had fantasies about were like this, the seventies or eighties ideal of masculinity. If he knew then, he would have told him to fuck off.</p><p>“Not a talker. I bet your friends think you’re really fun at parties. Now how the fuck did you get out here?” He took a few steps closer, but Jesus couldn’t scoot back any further. His eyes were wide and feral, he didn’t try to look hostile but he couldn’t control his expression.</p><p>“I thought the trains were still running on that track out there,” he said, his voice not half as panicked as he looked.</p><p>“You thought you were gonna ride the rails? Excuse my French, but that’s pretty fucking stupid.” He laughed again, Jesus would come to know that he laughed very frequently, especially at the expense of others.</p><p>He exhaled, taking his arms off of the wall. The man grinned, but he couldn’t tell what was pleasing him so much. He took him in completely before he decided to answer, to tell a smug stranger what he was going to do. The word ‘suicide’ had never even passed his lips in his eighteen years, no matter how terribly things got he never thought he’d seriously consider it. A lot had changed in the past twenty-four hours.</p><p>“No, I was going to kill myself.” He said coldly, eyes locked on the stranger.</p><p>His response was to let out an exaggerated “<em> whoo </em>,” one that made him furrow his eyebrows. He faked a disappointed look and stepped closer, hoping to get a better look at him.</p><p>“Well, I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself. If every kid killed themselves over a bad day or two humanity would die out, wouldn’t it?” He stretched, fast approaching the loft. “You got parents out there looking for you?”</p><p>Jesus watched him, realising he wouldn’t be able to escape. He’d at least have to walk out with this man, maybe even go with him back into town. Maybe if he ran he’d pull out a gun and shoot him, he seemed like the type.</p><p>But, what other option did he have</p><p>“I don’t. They don’t want me back.” He put his hand on his backpack, his pillow for the night.</p><p>“Then there must be some defect with you,” he chuckled, but Jesus didn’t find it exactly funny. Though, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to laugh. “C’mon, are you hungry? I’ll get you breakfast.”</p><p>He hesitated as he started to get onto his knees, which he noticed.</p><p>“I don’t bite <em> that </em> hard, pretty boy.” He said as he shuffled down the ladder, his heart racing as he met face-to-face with the man. His five-foot-seven was nothing compared to what must have been the man’s six-foot-something.</p><p>Jesus and the stranger walked through the field to the car off the side of the road, had he been there all night watching him? Was it sad that was the most dedication he could say anyone had ever expressed towards him? He stopped just as he opened the passenger door, his thoughts swirling.</p><p>This felt wrong, though his apathy was trying to convince him that was the best option. He tightened his grip on the door’s handle, eyes darting between the stranger and his white-knuckled hand.</p><p>“What’s your name?” Jesus asked, unaware of why. He didn’t know what he was thinking, what this was for, all he knew was that he thought he would be dead last night and he hadn’t planned for this exact situation.</p><p>The stranger took his hand in his, much larger and warmer than his own. “I’m Negan. Do you have a name, pretty boy?”</p><p>The smirk on his face made him uneasy, but he still answered.</p><p>“Paul. Paul Rovia,” his voice came out in a shudder, he couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or because of his thumb running across his knuckles. He brought Jesus’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly, and his unsteady heart attempted to flutter.</p><p>“You don’t need to hide from me, Paul Rovia.” He was playing coy, maybe it was starting to work on him.</p><p>He decided to let go of the handle and settle in the passenger seat, slamming the door shut accidentally and looking ahead. His hand trailed from his wrist settled on the console, down to his thigh. Negan squeezed it, testing for a reaction, but in the moment he said nothing at all. He wanted to scream, he wanted to tell himself that he was so fucking stupid for not getting out of the car then.</p><p>Jesus paid for breakfast before they arrived at the diner.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much to everyone who’s read, left kudos, and commented on the first part~ i didn’t think anyone would read this one, but i’m glad to see others are enjoying it~</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this idea was thought up by bhishak and i after watching too many episodes of the walking dead and acknowledging that jesus deserved much better. bhishak has also provided numerous ideas and pieces of art to this au, his contributions have not gone unnoticed~</p></blockquote></div></div>
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